


Strike Me Down

by sallyamongpoison



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Samson watches Cullen when he sleeps, moderate fluff, not in a creepy way, possibly some issues with faith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 13:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7053235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallyamongpoison/pseuds/sallyamongpoison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Samson contemplates the parts of Cullen he loves the most, and that he half believes he'll be struck down for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strike Me Down

There were days when Samson genuinely thought the Maker might strike him down where he stood.

There were actually a lot of those days, he’d done his fair share of things that would warrant it, but it was something that was both new and old that made him so fucking aware of it. He’d killed people, made farms of red lyrium out of dying and dead bodies, and followed a Tevinter magister-turned-near God for his own desire to survive the end of the world. Raleigh Samson was _not_ a good man. He knew he wasn’t, everyone knew he wasn’t, but that wasn’t why he half expected a lightning bolt to come out of the sky.

He expected the lightning to come through a broken, half patched roof late at night. He expected the clear view of clouds and stars to be obstructed by the light of the Maker’s wrath. He expected to be taken from this world because not only had he polluted _it_ , but now he was polluting the soul of a man who _was_ so intrinsically good. Sometimes, when the storms came in from the mountains and the rumblings of thunder shook Skyhold, he would close his eyes and offer up a last prayer. He waited, still his mind and his heart, and waited for that moment where his life would be snuffed out because he’d finally done something so terrible and hypocritical that not even the Maker or Andraste could let him live anymore.

Raleigh Samson, terrible man that he was, had fallen in love.

To be fair, he hadn’t fallen in love out of nowhere. It was years in the making. It was long nights with cots pushed together. It was a battle with swords and cursing the Inquisitor’s name. It was wet and red eyes through the haze of lyrium withdrawal. It was cool hands that were so familiar that it felt like no time had passed. It was amber eyes in the candlelight.

Raleigh Samson, terrible man that he was, had fallen in love with Cullen Rutherford.

Maybe the other man knew. The touches and the smiles they shared now that Samson was under his care were proof of it. At first they’d been hard and cold and stern but now it almost felt as though they were still sharing a room in the Gallows in another lifetime. What had been curt and angry before was warm and gentle now. They touched each other like old lovers. They spoke in the kind of code that only those who had known each other a long time spoke in. They hardly needed the words anymore. They just _knew._ They knew each other inside and out.

So now, like he did every other night, Samson rolled onto his side and looked up and out of the hole in Cullen’s roof toward the clear sky and half expected unnatural clouds to form and strike him down. They didn’t, though, and he rolled back over to study where Cullen had fallen asleep beside him. When Cullen slept before him, which happened more and more often now, Samson took those fleeting moments to feel that peace and learn all over again the things that he loved so much.

Of course it was the man’s spirit and his kind soul, those things went without question, but there were other things now. Cullen had grown up so much in these last few years, so much so that when they’d met again he hardly recognized him. There was still that same temper, anger born out of fear and torture and guilt, but there was a strength there that hadn’t been as prominent in the past. He’d recovered from so much, had lived again through so much, and the man that slept beside him was just as much steel as he was softness. That was something Samson had fallen in love with.

Then there was the more superficial and physical side of it. Samson smiled as he traced a spindly fingers across Cullen’s forehead to soothe the worry lines that had furrowed into his brow. Perhaps he was dreaming, perhaps it was a nightmare, but that little touch seemed to help him a little. That severe look eased, and again there was that almost angelic face that looked more at peace than Samson could remember him looking. He traced pale skin, trailed his fingers down over high cheekbones and a nearly perfect nose.

That scar. That scar and those lips. Cullen’s lips were criminally full and luscious, something Samson liked to tease him for here and there, and he just barely ghosted his fingers over them. His touch lingered on that scar, one that some had thought might have come from the aftermath of Kirkwall, but in reality had come from an incident in the training yard. A recruit, fresh from pledging himself, had sparred with Cullen. He was brash and didn’t quite know neither his own strength nor the right way to fight, and the end of his sword had caught Cullen in the face. It was a miracle it hadn’t done more damage, but there it was: a slight imperfection that only made the rest of him seem even more handsome. It had bled a lot, made Cullen swear like Samson hadn’t heard him before, and in the end was another symbol of the things that Cullen had to teach and deal with in his post.

Samson, however, still loved it. He loved to touch it, loved to lick at it with the tip of his tongue when they kissed, and loved to watch how it moved when Cullen spoke. It was a reminder of another time. It was a reminder of when they’d been so close. It was…rugged and masculine, and it really _did something_ for Samson.

His fingers roamed lower. They touched the long stretch of skin at Cullen’s neck where his pulse beat. Cullen was sensitive there, squirmed a little even in his sleep, and it made Samson smile. Sometimes he covered that neck in bites and bruises just because he loved it so much. Sometimes Cullen would have to dress with rosy cheeks because they were visible even with his collar and pauldrons. Samson couldn’t help it, though. The skin was thin and so, so easy to touch and kiss. It was an easy way to get Cullen into bed. It was where his lifelines pulsed. It was an easy target for a knife should he ever want out of this prison of a castle and sentence given to him. It was so much and so little all at once, and when Samson touched it or marked it they both knew the underlying statement: mine. That stretch of skin was Samson’s, and Cullen gave it to him freely.

Then, strong shoulders and muscled arms. Those arms could wield a blade and shield in a way that was so natural it was almost like the man had been born with them in his hand. Cullen was graceful when he was fighting. He was strong and solid, and those same arms that could cut the head off a demon were also the ones that he curled around Samson both in midst of terrible nightmares and their lovemaking. Samson had never felt so wrapped up as he did when those arms were around him. He could feel the heat of them for hours after Cullen let him go, and he _missed_ that touch when he was gone. He was protected like that. He was safe and secure and far away from the things that would kill him if all this had gone differently. They were strong and sure and solid, and the hold around him was safe.

Slowly, he settled back into the mattress beside Cullen. His hand still roamed as he rest his head on Cullen’s chest. Cullen’s breathing was even and slow, but strong and steady. He was alive and well. He was _there_. He was real and not some figment conjured up by either too much or not enough lyrium. How many times had he, in his madness, seen Cullen appear and Samson fell on his knees to…ask for forgiveness? Beg to be healed? Ask that Cullen join him? How many times had he hoped they’d end up in this same exact position like they had all those years ago.

He loved the sound and the feeling of Cullen’s heart beating under his ear. Samson loved knowing that Cullen was there, was alive, and was _with_ him. He loved it. He loved _him_. He loved Cullen, and while he always expected to be struck down for it…

Maker help him, take his soul, but he _hoped_ it never happened. And he hoped that when all this was over, when Corypheus was dead, he might live long enough for them to have some semblance of a life together.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and, not for the first time, Samson was afraid.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr! @sallyamongpoison


End file.
